


The Itch

by Cylin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, But also Switch dynamics, But they'll work it out, Consensual Kink, Consensual Violence, Dark Sherlock, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mostly Toplock and BottomJohn, Pain, Painplay, Romance, Running out of warnings, Slow Build, They don't know what they're doing, Warning for strong BDSM context
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-01-20 10:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1506815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cylin/pseuds/Cylin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They blunder into it, through it and happily never out of it.</p><p>As it is with many things Sherlock, there is a case that starts all this.<br/>A lot of mistakes and misunderstandings, but also negotiation and a budding romance.<br/>Sherlock can be dark, and John loves that, but he is also no Sub taking any shit from his Dom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely P-Chi!  
> (and Michi for suggesting to spam P-Chi's Tumblr inbox with smut for her birthday. I did as I was told (for who could ever disobey the great Traumachu) and the idea ran away and took me with it.
> 
> First Sherlock fic, and oh God, right into the deep end..... what am I _doing_?!
> 
> This is un-betaed, if you find mistakes, please point them out to me! :)  
> Also, I have no idea about medical or forensic practices, so, you know, just roll with it.

John was peacefully contemplating the selection of cook-in currys at the Tesco Express around the corner from 221b, when his phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. He sighed, already guessing who it was.

_Need your help immediately. SH_

John rolled his eyes. He was in a rather mellow, relaxed mood for once without the itching for a dangerous adventure scraping at his skin from the inside. It was nice, it was normal and for once actually relaxing.

_It is an emergency. SH_

John's face automatically drew into a frown and his blood pressure jumped helped by sudden adrenaline, until he caught himself. If Sherlock was in any position to text such coherent sentences, he was most definitely not in danger from anything; just annoyed at the answer to a puzzle evading him. Pompous, self-absorbed git. John sighed, a hint of fondness stealing into him.

 _Is it dead?_ John texted back. He knew Sherlock was at St. Bart's with Molly for the day (and John had actually hoped he would be there for the whole day, not to be disturbed, so John could raid the fridge for gone-off experiments to chuck and hoover the place. God knew it needed it.). And although he could have moved since this morning, it was unlikely. For all his skittishness and outbursts of energy, Sherlock Holmes was actually a creature of routines. Weird routines, like starting to play the violin at 4:47 in the morning precisely, or going into a sulk for an hour, while his experiment needed time to brew, the chemical reactions needing time to take place, but he was still a man of habits and an admittedly all over the place time-schedule. But there _was_ a schedule. Even his black moods had a time an place and a rather fixed time-span until they went away again. It was just that Sherlock was so insufferable during them, that John tried his best to get him out of it sooner, for his own sanity. So, yeah, Sherlock being at Bart's meant corpses.

 _Obviously. SH_ , came the quick reply.

_Then it can wait._

_John._ And here John could actually hear the petulant whine that elongated his one syllable name to a drawled pleading in his head. God new, he'd heard it often enough. He sighed again, took a random selection of cook-in currys from the shelve and made some other speed grabs for items in the canned food aisle. They needed some food in stock, ordering take away or eating out was just too expensive in the long run.

 _On my way_ , John texted while he waited in line for the normal check-out. If he could avoid the self check-outs, he would do so for the rest of his life. Those _things_ weren't good for his health.

He barely remembered to smiled back at the blonde, freckled woman behind the counter, grabbed his bags and went to Baker Street tube station. No need wasting money on a cab, if the tube only took a couple of minutes longer than being stuck in London's traffic.

 

~*~

 

“You took the tube,” Sherlock accused as John stepped through the doors to the morgue. It sounded very annoyed, as if John taking a couple of minutes longer was taking a huge chunk out of Sherlock's oh so precious time. John didn't comment, instead held up his two plastic bags for Molly to see and lifted his eyebrows questioningly, ignoring Sherlock completely.

“Oh,” she said, looking around for a moment, like she was seeing her morgue for the first time, “Uhm, you can put them at my desk.” A moment later, she added, “Perishables?”

John smiled in thanks and shook his head. He knew better than to buy perishables, if there was even a slight chance that he would be stuck at the morgue for hours. It was bad enough that there was non-food going off in their fridge at home, so he made sure that the actual, edible food, was at all times still, well, edible.

Sherlock waved him over impatiently, apparently having grown tired of not being the centre of attention. He did hand over a pair of medical gloves though and it had the air of a begrudging apology. John tried to hide his smile, his tongue sneaking out once to wet his lower lip as a replacement action to an actual grin. He knew Sherlock had noticed, because he was staring at his mouth for a moment, his brows crinkled in a frown. John cleared his throat and Sherlock looked away quickly, his focus on the body before them.

“What do you see?” Sherlock asked, leaning back fully, clasping his hands behind his back in an odd simile of John's parade rest.

John stepped closer, leaning forwards slightly, without touching the body. “Male, mid thirties, about 1 meter 85 centimetres tall, about 80 kilograms, good health, sporty, left-handed and frequently using a pen to write judging by the bump on his left middle finger.” He stopped in his observations to lean a little closer to the face.

“Good,” Sherlock murmured and John felt a warm glow inside his chest at the praise. “What else?”

“May I?” John asked Molly politely indicating that he wanted to touch the corpse.

“Yes, of course!” She said quickly, as if she was surprised to be included in the proceedings at all. John smiled a thanks at her, and pried one eye and then the other open.

“Slight Petechiae,” he murmured, checking the throat for any obstructing objects or lesions that hinted at a removed object. Nothing. No bruising on the face at all. “Huh,” he huffed surprised, then checked the corpse's wrists. There was some very slight bruising. “Restrained and asphyxiated?” He realised how unsure he sounded. Something was off. So, to prevent one of Sherlock's acerbic responses to 'obvious idiocy', he went on quickly, “But not a lot of petechial hemorrhage in the eyes and the bruises on his wrists seem to be just on the surface, so he didn't struggle much, if at all. Tox-screen?” He asked turning to Molly again.

“No drugs in his system,” she answered. “The cause of death is as of yet undetermined. He didn't have a heart attack,” she said, indicating the y-incision, “last meal was pasta with shrimps, but he didn't have an anaphylactic shock either. He just... sort of... stopped.” She shrugged. Sherlock sighed, but John silenced him with a stern look. So Sherlock rolled his eyes, albeit unseen by Molly. Small mercies, John thought.

“What about the petechiae in his eyes?”

Molly shook her head. “It's not conclusive. It's slight, so it could be from a violent coughing fit shortly before death and nothing else indicates that he's been asphyxiated. I took some photos to show hidden bruising, but there's nothing on his face. The marks on his wrists are uniform wide bands, that looks more like a bruise from the strap of a wrist watch, or bracelet. You know, those wide leather things some men wear.”

“On both wrists?” Sherlock scoffs. “Both over 5 centimetres wide?”

Molly just shrugged. “That's why I called you, Sherlock.”

“Well, obviously,” he said, sounding even more pompous than usual and John just wanted to kick him. “You both have missed the most curious thing as always.” He paused for effect, heightening John's urge to kick him.

“Sherlock,” he warned lowly under his breath. Sherlock twitched once, almost imperceptibly. He went on as if nothing had happened, but John knew he'd heard him and toned down his arrogance a tad.

“That,” Sherlock said without preamble, pointing at the body's left flank.

“It's some kind of contact rash, but there are no toxins present.” Molly looked at her report to verify, but nodded as she looked up again.

“For God's sake, look closer!” Sherlock shouted, pointing more vigorously. He whipped out his magnifying glass and shoved it at John. He took it with a sigh and leaned over the dead man's side. Molly adjusted a light helpfully.

“There,” Sherlock rumbled next to him, his gloved finger appearing in John's field of vision through the magnifying glass. The glove was wrinkly, but John could make out the well looked after fingernail through the material, briefly distracted by the long, slender digit, he caught himself and followed to where Sherlock was pointing. Indeed, one thin line of dots emerged out of the red spotty mess of the supposed rash in a straight line about two centimetres in length. The red points it was comprised of had exactly the same spacing between them, same diameter. Nothing in nature was that symmetrical. John looked up and waved Molly over. She took a look as well, then straightened and looked expectantly at Sherlock. “That is odd,” she admitted, “What is that?” She and John both looked at Sherlock for the grand reveal of the answer.

“Well, how should I know?” And how could Sherlock still sound so sure of himself and _arrogant_ above all, when he for once actually _didn't_ know the answer? John wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. He took another look instead. Something was familiar about this line of regularly spaced, tiny pinpricks to him, like the inkling, nagging of a memory at the back of his skull.

“Wartenberg wheel,” John muttered before his brain had fully caught up to his finding.

Sherlock perked up, his face opening up in revelation. “A pinwheel for sensory testing? Brilliant!”

John nodded, but then shook his head the next instant, “But that makes no sense, Wartenberg's have not been used for sensory testing since the 80s. We just had them in the field, because they're an easy tool to carry around to get at least a basic idea about nerve damage. And this application on his side is completely random, which is probably why it looks like a rash.”

Molly had grown very still next to him. She was so still in fact, it was even more obvious because of it. It was like she had stopped completely, not even breathing. Both Sherlock and John looked up at her. When their two gazes settled on her face, she blushed violently. She was ggowing so red so quickly in fact, John got a little worried.

She laughed nervously once, sounding forced, dispelling the nervous energy that made her hand reach up to her ear in an obvious gesture of emotional discomfort. She still rubbed her ear lobe once, calming a little, her eyes sliding away from the two men.

“The wife reported her husband's death, so maybe we should ask her about BDSM practices,” she suggested under her breath.

Sherlock stilled as well, staring at Molly for a moment incredulously. His face twitched, as he obviously re-evaluated what he thought he'd known about Molly. He looked so scandalised, it was comical. John tried not to burst out laughing at the weird twitchy frown on his face. When Sherlock noticed, he scowled at him darkly.

“Oh,” Molly breathed out, as she saw the exchange between the two, “Oh no. No – that's not. - It's not – I have kinky friends. That's all,” she clutched the clipboard to her breast tightly, but didn't blush anew, just jutted out her chin towards Sherlock defiantly. John admired her for that a little. Not many people would take such a false assumption in stride like she just did. Stuttering, true, but with a lot of dignity still.

Sherlock for his part, seemed to relax completely, his earlier readings of Molly reinstated again. John marvelled at his priorities, if being wrong about one of his deductions was more shocking to him, than Molly potentially being into S&M.

John cleared his throat, drawing their attention to himself. Molly seemed grateful for that, her small hands gripping the clipboard less tightly. “So, are we looking at an S&M practice gone wrong?” he asked.

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock muttered, steepleing his fingers under his chin briefly, fixing the dead man on the slab with an assessing stare. “We still don't know what killed him, if anything did at all.”

“You still think this is a natural death?” John asked doubtfully.

“Or an accidental one,” Sherlock said, still staring at the corpse, “Or, indeed, murder!” His face light up at the last word, and his eyes slid sideways at John twinkling mischievously and full of glee. No man besides Sherlock Holmes was allowed to be so happy about the prospect of murder, John thought, but he could feel an answering twinge of anticipation.

“We will interview the wife,” Sherlock declared and turned swiftly around, his coat billowing dramatically.

“No, you won't,” Molly said calmly, but with a sternness, that surprised both John and Sherlock alike. “If there is the possibility of a murder or even just negligent homicide, DI Lestrade will need to hear this first. And then he decides whether to invite you or not.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved her concern away with a dismissive hand.

“I'm warning you, Sherlock,” Molly said with the same calm. John was growing slightly weary of her. Something had changed between her and Sherlock apparently. John had never seen her stand up to Sherlock that way. There was a flash image of her in black shiny latex, whip in hand, in John's mind. He felt instantly guilty for it, shuffling a step back from her in silent apology.

“I get enough trouble for just letting you in here. This is a Met case and you have not been invited by DI Lestrade yet. If you storm off by yourself, I'll make sure he won't invite you at all.” The calmness with which she laid out the facts was bordering on scary now. Sherlock's face went from astonished to calculating to sudden understanding.

“It's clear where your loyalties lie, Molly,” he said with cruel gentleness and John knew what was coming next, but was unable to intercept it. “I hope he keeps you satisfied.”

Surprisingly, Molly just smirked, flushing a little again, not from embarrassment, but instead from a fond and apparently _very satisfying_ memory. John swallowed and looked away.

Sherlock stopped for a second, then plastered a friendly smile on his face. “Congratulations.” He was out of the morgue in a few strides.

John quickly grabbed his Tesco bags. Turning around to Molly with an apologetic smile and a wave, he fled.


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, bollocks!” Sherlock exclaimed grumpily, when they stood outside of St. Bart's. John just lifted an eyebrow at his swearing. Sherlock regarded him with a look of disdain at him not catching on to Sherlock's reasoning that must lay somewhere behind his cussing. John just shrugged and turned away. He wasn't in the mood to bicker. He still wanted to clean the flat, but that now included navigating around Sherlock, or navigating Sherlock, whichever was easier. He didn't look forward to either.

Sherlock seemed to deign it important that John understood, so he explained with an air of arrogant superiority. “If Molly and Gleeson work together now, it will make it even more difficult to get what I need from them.”

“Greg,” John said absentmindedly looking for a cab and only paying half attention.

“What?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“Lestrade's name is Greg, not Gleeson.”

“What does that matter to the problem at hand of those two conspiring to work against me?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “You've manipulated them for years, no wonder they co-conspire now.”

“Yes, maybe,” Sherlock admitted begrudgingly, “But seriously, Molly and Greg, as in 'Molly & Greg'?! God, it's the name of a bad romantic sitcom.” He shuddered in a show of disgust. John knew it was completely fake. He wondered why Sherlock could not show that he was pleased for Molly, like a normal person. But then Sherlock was extraordinary, never normal. John was truly happy for Molly that she was not hung up on this lunatic anymore. Not like other people, a helpful inner voice chipped in.

The rest of the afternoon and part of the evening saw Sherlock scout the internet for information and when John saw the sites, he made sure he didn't look too closely, while he tidied up and hoovered around Sherlock. At least he was not moving from his chair, John thought. That made his work a lot easier. He even managed to clear the fridge a bit, by picking up the various containers with questionable content, shook them lightly so Sherlock could decide by the sound they made if it was something that John was allowed to throw out. John was pleased to notice, that Sherlock didn't actually argue about any of it. It was a small concession, so he didn't throw out any of the other stuff as repayment. It was an odd balance, if he thought about it.

“You know, the light bruising on the wrists could have come from heavily padded cuffs,” Sherlock said out of the blue. “Although it still means he didn't struggle.”

John had been sitting in his chair, on his second cup of tea, reading a Metro he'd piked up on his ride on the Tube earlier. He looked up and frowned. “I'm not sure I want to know, Sherlock.”

“But it's so fascinating!” Sherlock marvelled, his voice full of playful glee. That glee made John most uncomfortable of all.

“I didn't research it much earlier, with Ms Adler,” Sherlock went on, completely ignoring John's objection, “A grave oversight on my part, I have to admit.”

Suddenly the tinny sounds of slaps, wails and moans filled the air making John jump and spill his tea. “Fucking hell, Sherlock!” John yelled loudly. Sherlock instantly paused whatever had been playing on his laptop. John realised he'd overreacted the next instant, but Sherlock was already staring at him in his intense analysing way. John didn't know why this made him so uncomfortable, but it did, and he wasn't ready for Sherlock to deduce it out of him, before he had figured out himself what was bothering him so much.

“I'm going to bed,” he announced, ineffectively rubbing at the tea stain on his jumper. The material had soaked up the liquid like a sponge. At least it hadn't been hot anymore.

John felt Sherlock's gaze follow him as he went to his room.

 

~*~

 

Lestrade didn't invite Sherlock. It made the latter mutter and whine about the Hooper-Givenchy-Connection. John needed a moment longer than usual to figure out what that meant. No, it was not a film title.

By mid-day John was silently fuming at his flatmate. His constant huffing and puffing and whining – God, the _whining_ \- had eroded all his patience. He also felt the need to check about every hour that his gun was still hidden, so Sherlock would leave the walls alone.

John could barely handle Sherlock on a day such as this and when he started getting texts from Lestrade complaining about Sherlock texting him every ten minutes with questions about the case, John decided he would ignore these texts happening at all. Over the course of the afternoon Lestrade grew to be almost as annoying as Sherlock.

After Sherlock spent a whole day bombarding both Molly (yes, John had gotten a text form her, too) and Lestrade with text messages the DI had finally given in. Lestrade had then proceeded to text even more, detailing the steps of the investigation so far in 160 signs sized snippets, because Sherlock wouldn't take any of his calls. Sherlock read them out loud, obviously not caring what John wanted to do – like _reading_ without _someone_ prattling on in the background about possible murder scenarios only interrupted by the annoying sound of the text alert.

The wife, Mrs. Rotherfield, had supposedly found her husband dead and, following proper protocol, had alerted the Met about Mr. Rotherfield's demise. The cause of death was still undetermined, but suffocation wasn't off the table yet and after a day of digging (which was intermingled with Sherlock's annoying texts, severely hindering the DI's concentration and grating on his nerves, information he then helpfully texted at _John_ , thus completing the text message menage a trois circle jerk, John thought darkly), Lestrade had discovered that a mistress might be in the picture (beautifully laying out another menage a trois – and maybe some heterosexual variation of a circle jerk, too). No one had openly admitted to any BDSM practices taking place, which was not surprising really, as such practices even between two consenting adults were illegal in the UK.

By the time Sherlock had gathered all the available information on the case John was so thoroughly ticked off by both him and Lestrade's texts, he 'accidentally' forgot his mobile a home, when he went out for a long walk in Regent's Park. Alone.

He was sure Sherlock would be able to find him in a flash, if he needed to, probably by deducing John's route by the turn of the wind and which trees were in bloom or something. But he didn't, which told John that the detective had at least some sense of self-preservation.

The walk helped. John bought some take away on his way back home. He had planned to cook something for them tonight using some of the stuff he'd bought yesterday, but after this day he was not in the mood at all. He wasn't sure Sherlock would eat anyway, as he was probably in full case mode by now.

“What can you use to suffocate someone, without strangling them, leaving any marks _and_ them not fighting back?” Sherlock asked as John stepped through the door.

“Don't know about the fighting back, but what could have been used that would not be out of place to leave traces on him, are his wife's or mistress's breasts,” John answered in a heartbeat. He'd been thinking about this during his walk actually, remembering an article he'd read years back now when he was so bored on his downtime from active duty he'd resorted to reading forensic journals someone had left at their break-room (break- _tent_ really). He'd always wondered, still did when he thought back to it, who brought forensic journals to a war zone?

Sherlock looked up, confused. “Suffocation by mammae?”

John shrugged. “I read about it a while back actually. Some people even like it, I gather. Combine that with their possible BDSM interests and it makes sense.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Please, not everyone, who likes to be smothered by breasts is into BDSM, or vice versa. However, I do see your point.” He thought about it some more. “They would leave biological trace though, epithelials, oils, possibly sweat,” he wondered aloud after a moment.

“That can easily be explained though, as he probably had contact with both wife and possibly mistress, too. Nothing really incriminating there, unless you count the infidelity as motif.”

Sherlock waved that away. He fired off a text, probably to Molly, asking her to take some trace samples from the late Mr. Rotherfield's face. He would never text Lestrade with such a request, because he would then involve Anderson. “What type of breasts would be required to achieve suffocation, do you think?” He looked at John hopefully.

John cleared his throat. “Er, I haven't exactly made comparisons for that purpose, you know?”

“Huh,” was the only grumbled response Sherlock emitted to that. He seemed distinctly dissatisfied with this lack of data.

John scrubbed one hand over his face and back to his neck, shaking his head at himself. “I can't believe we're actually discussing erotic asphyxiation by breasts.”

Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. “But you like breasts,” he said with absolute certainty.

“True,” John admitted wryly, “But I don't like to have my air supply cut of by them. Decidedly unsexy. Also, discussing this with you: Decidedly weird.”

Sherlock just shrugged as if it was all the same to him as he visibly drifted off to his mind palace. It made John wonder: _Was_ it all the same to him?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING for past child abuse.**  
>  Not graphic, but it's still there. If that is triggering for you, please give this chapter a pass (probably the whole fic, actually, just in case).

At night John lay in his bed, awake, waiting for sleep that wouldn't come.

In a way it was rather surprising that this hadn't happened the night before, but maybe his subconscious needed 24 hours to work through something before pushing it into his conscious mind.

Now he couldn't stop thinking about the wicked playfulness Sherlock had so innocently displayed the night before, when he had researched all these BDSM sites with voracious interest. It wasn't the playfulness really that gave John cause for concern, but the underlying naïve cruelness that John knew Sherlock was capable of coupled with that innocent playfulness. Sometimes he was like a child ripping of flies' wings without realising what that actually did to the animal.

John shuddered at the thought of anyone being at the receiving end of that guileless cruelty.

He started abruptly, his leg twitching and his hands clenching to fists as he realised that the shudder was not entirely born out of apprehension. He swallowed, throat dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Slight nausea rose quickly the next instant, as his mouth was flooded with saliva that John usually associated with the want to kiss and lick a lover's skin. He retched once, dry, trying to suppress the feeling. His stomach cramped a little, roiled, but before he could decide to head to the toilet just in case, he felt himself calm just as suddenly. It was like a reverse rush, falling into him with accurate aim. It was the cold calm of an adrenaline surge that made his hands steady and his leg cease to hurt. It also left him very confused right now, because he could not figure out why his own emotions had triggered such a vicious fight response. He didn't feel scared, but he must have scared himself a lot just now for this reaction to take place so suddenly. It was like his mind and his body weren't on the same page. It was an odd feeling and for a moment John anticipated another wave of panic at this dissonance, but he remained calm.

Huh.

He turned onto his side and went to sleep without remembering why he had lain awake in the first place.

 

~*~

 

John came down into their living room the next morning feeling well rested, but a little cramped in the hands. It was Sunday and he had for once slept in rather long. He stopped abruptly when he saw Sherlock sitting on the floor on the other side of the couch table, six bras lying around him. Blue dressing gown wrapped tightly around him, he was currently examining a dark purple one very closely. His fingers danced over the seams, feeling for hidden supports, John assumed.

“Who's are these?” John asked indicating the bras.

“Mrs. Hudson's.”

John flinched reflexively in surprise. “You nicked underwear off our landlady?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course,” Sherlock said unapologetically. “She was hardly going to give them to me,” he muttered absent-mindedly, his attention clearly still on the garment in front of him. Then Sherlock looked up as if finally truly realising John was in the room and grinned mischievously. His grin turning quickly impish, he put the purple bra on his head, letting the clasps dangle. His curly hair, still sleep-ruffled, stuck out at the sides under the shoulder straps.

John snickered loudly, surprised by finding the scene before him so helplessly funny. Sherlock looked like a five year old, who'd just discovered his mum's bras and was playing with them. On his head the undergarment now resembled a pair of big, lace-trimmed ear muffs. John chortled and Sherlock's grin turned rather proud.

“You're going to give them back undamaged, right?” John asked, still grinning.

“Yes, before she even knows I had them.” Attention quickly diverted by another one before him – impromptu 'ear muffs' still on his head, surprisingly held in place by his hair alone - Sherlock muttered curiously, “This one's really pretty.” He felt the bordeaux coloured fabric between his fingers, letting them run back and forth over the dark yellow stitching, a highly concentrated frown on his face, “It's new.” He looked up at John looking mischievous, but also pleased with something.

At John's blank look and uncomprehendingly lifted eyebrow, Sherlock's happy expression slid into an exasperated eye-roll. But there was little heat behind it. “Really, John! It means things with Mr Chatterjee are proceeding nicely. Slowly,” he shook his head, the bra on his head dancing oddly, chattering to the other bra in his hands as if it was intently listening – and a small child, “Sooooo slooooowly.” He shook his head again, still not dislodging the bra on his head, but then looked up at John, one of his rare really-pleased-for-someone-else smiles on his face. “It's getting there.” He positively beamed.

It filled John with a warm glow. But, he gathered, seeing a full grown man in his dressing gown, sitting cross legged on the floor in the middle of your living room holding a bra, with for others strewn around him, the sixth still on his head can do that to anyone.

Looking at the surprisingly colourful collection of undergarments, John finally saw the pink grapefruit and yellowish green pomelo also on the table and frowned. “Sherlock, please tell me, you're not using fruits as stand-ins for breasts.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and parroted obediently, “I'm not using fruits as stand-ins for-”

“But is that actually true?”

“Of course.” Sherlock levelled such a withering look at John, he actually felt its sting and did for a moment consider whether he had really lost some IQ points. John then remembered a couple of other experiments though and lifted an eyebrow, feeling suddenly very much unapologetic for having questioned his friend.

“Although colloquially often compared, fruits are hardly an analogue for real life fatty tissue,” Sherlock explained. The way he said 'fatty tissue' was so unsexy it took John a split second to relate that to the wonderful things that were women's breasts. John had always had the impression that if Sherlock was interested in anyone, it was definitely _not_ women. The way he talked about their bodies just now cemented that opinion even more in John's mind.

Sherlock finally took the bra off his head, eyeing the cups interestedly, poking the lace trimming. He did steal a look towards the grapefruit, so John quickly walked over and grabbed the fruit to prevent him from getting any funny ideas. Well, more funny than what as currently happening.

“Why did you buy these then?” John asked, eyeing the fruits longingly, “For what experiment?” 'This time' was left unsaid.

Sherlock looked up from the bra at John, frowning. “I bought them for us, well, you specifically. You said you like them?” He sounded suddenly very unsure, as if buying fruit for ones flat mate was maybe 'not good'.

John took pity on him and grinned widely. “Thank you.” But the next moment suspicion arose, “Hang on... You brought new body parts to the flat, didn't you?”

Sherlock didn't look up from the bra in his lap. In fact he became very still over it, unnaturally so. John sighed. “Of course,” he muttered lowly. Of course this was Sherlock's way of sugaring John's mood. He slowly released a long suffering breath and went to the kitchen to get a knife and bowls for the juicy pulp. He really did like pomelo.

“I put the spleens in ziplocks,” Sherlock muttered softly under his breath but loud enough John could still hear it in the kitchen, so he knew it was directed at him. Sherlock actually sounded a little shamefaced. John wasn't sure it was entirely an act. He checked the fridge. The spleens (or what was still there of them), really sat neatly in ziplock bags on the lowest shelf, way away from any edible food in there. At least he made an effort, John thought, mollified. He labelled the two bags – something Sherlock had again neglected – as John was really trying to avoid becoming a cannibal by accident. He went back to the living room with bowls and knife in hand.

Sitting down at the living room desk, he divided the fruits evenly and started to peel. He even peeled some pieces free of any white stuff _and_ the skin and dropped the pulp into Sherlock's bowl. God, sometimes it was like training an animal: positive reinforcement, positive reinforcement, positive reinforcement.

Sherlock actually ate all the pulp in his bowl and possibly stole some from John's as well. There was suspiciously less left each time John left it unattended for a moment. But at least Sherlock was eating something. He also spent most of the morning between studying the bras and some other experiment brewing in the kitchen. John read, wrote a little for his blog, went for a Sunday walk and then watched some telly when he came back. Life of Birds, a re-run on BBC four.

At half past four Sherlock took all the bras off the floor and vanished downstairs. After he was back it only took about 15 minutes for Mrs Hudson to return to her flat from her afternoon playing games with her friends. She really seemed to be non the wiser as to where her bras had spent most of the day.

John changed the channel to another documentary, this time a more sensational one on channel five. Sherlock had taken to the sofa now, again sitting cross-legged, but with his laptop balanced on his knees. He had his headphones in, which was so remarkably courteous in itself – usually Sherlock had no problem making a racket – that John did a quick double take.

From his rapt attention and the slight rosy glow to his cheeks, as well as him being so courteous, John deduced that Sherlock was browsing the BDSM sites again.

It made his skin crawl.

 

~*~

 

On Monday John was at the clinic and had just worked through a couple of reports, when his mobile rang.  
“Mate, he's gone off the deep end,” Lestrade's voice carried over the phone, “And _how_ am I'm supposed to get that information and not look like a pervert?”

“What?” John asked, confused. He clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder and tried to sign off on the reports while following the conversation. Apparently he was not doing a very good job, because he had no idea what Lestrade was talking about.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said as if answering John's non-spoken question. “He wants me to get the bra sizes of the wife and mistress, the wanker. I promise you, if this is some kind of joke-”

“No, I'm afraid it's not,” John interrupted his rant, finally catching up with the conversation. “He really does need that information to figure out which of the women could possibly have smothered Mr Rotherfield.”

“With their tits?!” Lestrade exclaimed disbelievingly. The immediate embarrassed silence following his shout told John that the DI was not alone on his end while phoning him. John sucked in his lips not to burst out laughing. He gleefully hoped Donovan was there giving Lestrade the stink eye this very moment. That woman was fierce.

John's suspicion was confirmed, as he heard Donovan in the background, “Is this for real?”

There was an odd tinny rustle as Lestrade apparently handed over the phone and Donovan's brisk voice sounded over the phone, “How is this serious police work?”

“Sherlock thinks Mr Rotherfield might have been smothered by breasts.” At the unimpressed silence on the other end, John elaborated, “I've actually read something on that a few years back in a forensic journal.”

“Yeah, I've heard about something like this, too,” Donovan said thoughtfully. John was surprised at her quick compliance.

“John,” and it was so odd hearing her use his first name, “Are you sure this is for real?”

“Yes,” John said with emphasis.

“It makes some sense, actually,” Donovan said with a sigh, “that's why Phillip couldn't find anything else on the body.”

John held back on his trained Sherlock-esque response to that fact. He didn't very much like Anderson either. “Except epithelials, oils and the like of both mistress and wife?” He asked innocently instead. Sherlock had gotten Molly's findings to that already.

“How do you know?” Donovan's voice was suspicious once more.

“Hazarded a guess,” John said quickly. He heard her sceptical 'uh-huh' on the other end. She was not buying it, but let it slide.

“So,” she said, all business once more, “the Freak needs the cup sizes?”

“Yes.”

“Band size as well?”

“Uhm,” John mulled it over. He didn't know, but better have more data than less. “Yes?” he said, but it sounded a little closer to a question than he'd planned.

“I'll ask them,” she said and John swore he could _hear_ her directing a withering look at Lestrade for his cowardice. His muffled, “Good, Detective. Thank you,” sounded awkward as John was apparently handed over again.

“Really?” Lestrade asked again, confirming to make absolutely sure.

“Yes, really,” said John with a sympathetic sigh.

 

~*~

 

John at first didn't recognise what he was smelling when he took the stairs up to their flat after a day of boringly mundane work at the clinic, until he actually opened the door.

221B smelled like a tack room. The smell of leather was nice, but completely out of place and made John halt in his tracks. He could hear Sherlock bustling in the kitchen, interspersed with tapping of a computer keyboard, so he was home. John took a cautious step into the living room and looked around.

There was a big cardboard box eviscerated on the floor and everything that had once been presumably in said box was strewn all over the room. Oddly the packing peanuts lay in one orderly heap on the couch table, everything else was chaos. And why would Sherlock order the packing material, but throw the actual items around like that?

With a long-suffering sigh John hung up his jacket and had another look around. He could identify which items had come from the box, as they were new to him, but he could not identify  _what_ they were. Except one: It was a leather rose. Everything else was long strips of leather in varying colours, thickness and length to him, some braided in a way John had never seen leather been braided.

Something lay slung over the skull that looked like a belt, but wasn't. The image was like a punch to the stomach; Memory congealing uncomfortably. It had holes like a belt, but no clasp. Who made something like that?

Preparing to ignore the mess and just read the paper, he went over to his chair and stopped short. He sighed once to calm himself down, his hand clenching to a fist unconsciously, then relaxing. “Why's there … stuff all over the living room, Sherlock?” He wasn't really sure he wanted to know the answer, but of course he asked anyway.

“To which are you referring?” Came a good-natured question in response from the kitchen.

“Specifically, what's in my chair.” John picked the item up. It was a white strip of leather with a purple rubber ball in the middle.

“That's a silicon ball gag.”

John let the thing drop quickly as if it had burned him. It bounced once on the seat of his chair before falling to the floor, merrily bouncing around for a moment. Springy little fucker, John thought darkly. He looked back at the leather items around the room again, and now they actually made sense. They were obviously some leather implements for some BDSM practices, probably for whipping – or something. John wouldn't really call them whips, as they looked nothing like whips at all.

“Why is there S&M stuff in our living room?” he asked, trying hard to hold on to his patience.

“Because I ordered it from Germany,” Sherlock answered patiently, the unspoken 'Really, John, so obvious', making John's teeth clench.

“Why?!” John tried again, his annoyance giving way to anger. He was tired, he wanted a quiet night and all these _things_ were making him profoundly uncomfortable. He wanted them gone as quickly as possible. There was a pull. Something. Something, and it was not right. And _that_ made him even more uncomfortable. Almost afraid. The skull seemed to look at him from under that strange belt-not-belt thing. He swallowed, turning away, calmed himself down a little, and repeated his question, “Yeees, but _why_ , Sherlock?”

Apparently they were having two completely different conversations here, because Sherlock answered good-naturedly, “It's really good quality, but affordable.” He looked up from what he was doing at the kitchen table and actually beamed at John, visibly proud.

John just stared at him. “I'm going out,” he said in a clipped tone, putting his jacket back on.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, having the audacity to look perplexed and a little hurt.

“Because you ordered stuff from Germany,” John shot back and closed the door to their flat firmly behind him.

 

~*~

 

The Volunteer was not John's usual pub, but it was literally just down the street and served good stout. Pricey, but good, and everything close to their postcode was pricey anyway. He looked at his pint of Imperial as if it held the answers to the universe. Or at least his own life.

That smell and those items had done something to him. He couldn't put his finger on it yet, but he had the feeling, that once he could, he was in for an emotional melt-down. It was not pleasant.

One thing he could identify and that he couldn't get out of his head anymore was that black leather strap, that looked like a belt, but wasn't. It terrified and intrigued him in equal measures. He had no idea where the intrigue came from, but he knew quite clearly why it terrified him: It made something creep up from the depth with slow congealing steps, memories that were just that usually: Just flashes of things in the past, but now they grew a multitude of arms and legs and more frighteningly emotions he thought he'd gotten over.

He used to be so afraid, for himself and his sister and mother and even father. And so helpless. The helplessness was the worst.

Theirs was a loving home until alcohol took hold. But even then, their parents loved them - until they didn't for a while. Then they did again. Until the next time, the next bottle, the next fight. It was confusing, so, so confusing and never safe.

That belt had had a clasp, John remembered. It had scourged deep just like their parent's embraces. It became the same very quickly. One exchangeable for the other on a whim. Never knowing which embrace was next; one of living, loving skin - or dead, shiny leather.

He'd thought he'd gotten over that, unlearned this fear and helplessness on the battle fields of operating rooms, gravelly sands and sun-bleached stones. But apparently not. Now it slowly filled him up, rising like a tide, slowly but with absolute surety that it would engulf him whole, that once the level rose over his nose, he would drown.

He reached to his half drunk pint to take another calming sip. He stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth. What the fuck am I doing? He thought and put the beer down quickly, shoving it further away when he felt his stomach coil in sudden nausea. He almost laughed, but knew it would come out all hysterical, so he kept it in not to frighten the other patrons.

He sat there for a moment, staring at the half full glass and made the conscious decision to not finish his beer and head home instead. He would not drown that particular sorrow in even more alcohol.

When he arrived back home, Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, his hands held together under his nose in his thinking pose. His eyes fluttered as John stepped into the room to hang up his jacket and then opened for a moment staring unseeingly ahead. Then he turned his head towards John and blinked once slowly.

“You are shaken by something,” Sherlock observed quietly, detachedly. “What is it?”

John snorted derisively. “Can't you deduce it?”

Sherlock shook his head and it was painfully obvious how much that grated on him. John felt a little vindictive. “Then it's better left that way, don't you think?” he whispered between clenched teeth and was astonished, when Sherlock didn't push for once.

After a moment of tense silence settling between them like a brick, Sherlock said a touch hesitantly but with absolute certainty, “Earlier, I did something to upset you.”

John didn't answer.

“I cleaned the flat and put everything away.” His voice was calm and soft, almost plaintive and John realised it was meant as an apology. He looked around. The living room was, if not completely tidy, at least orderly in its chaos and those damn leather straps and sticks and whatnot were nowhere to be seen, although their smell still lingered.

“Yeah, you did,” John said and only at Sherlock's flinch did he notice, that it was easy to misunderstand which question his answer belonged to. He softened his voice and smiled slightly in thanks, making his meaning absolutely clear, “I can see, you did.”

Sherlock's smile was positively beaming. John felt something around his stomach unclench slowly. With a little viciousness left he thought, that only three to four beers would have had the same effect. That he substituted alcohol with Sherlock was something John didn't want to think about.


End file.
